


coping mechanisms

by carcinomas (orphan_account)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Multi, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-02-10
Updated: 2012-03-23
Packaged: 2017-10-30 21:23:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/336308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/carcinomas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>cope<br/>1    [kohp]coped, cop·ing.<br/>verb (used without object)<br/>1. to struggle or deal, especially on fairly even terms or with some degree of success (usually followed by with ): I will try to cope with his rudeness.<br/>2. to face and deal with responsibilities, problems, or difficulties, especially successfully or in a calm or adequate manner: After his breakdown he couldn't cope any longer.<br/>3. Archaic . to come into contact; meet (usually followed by with ).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [roachpatrol](https://archiveofourown.org/users/roachpatrol/gifts).



Everyone had gotten over it. John had gotten over it (he laughed it off; said there was no point on dwelling on the past). Rose shrugged and looked away (“It’s done and over with, why focus on such sad things?”). And Jade...well, Jade just forgot (“oh that? dave youre so silly!! i mean it was a though time and all but were all fine now so its okay right?”).

But you didn’t forget. It was nerve-wrecking. It was highly upsetting and you just couldn’t let go. There was no way you could. It was the longest day in your life and it was so painful, yet everyone, except you, just left it alone.

Sure, you should have as well. It was just a game and games are meant to be played and beaten and that’s what you did. You beat it. And you beat it pretty damn hard. Hell, all of you did.

Now look at you. 20 years old in a shitty penthouse (you made it shitty, remember?), no one around you (that’s a lie), and you’re working a shitty job (that’s another lie). You’ve made a living for yourself, this is what you’ve wanted for years, now look at you. Why are you so damn unhappy?

Oh, that’s right. That’s because you won’t forget. That’s a shame and you know it. But you shake your head each time you remember. You shake your head, pour yourself a drink, and things don’t seem so bad anymore. Until you wake up with that fucking hangover and wonder ‘what the fuck did i do last night’ and you remember all over again.

It sucks. It sucks bad. But that’s alright.

It’s time to start the day. Another typical day.

You get out of bad, take another swig, get your ass dressed, drag your ass downstairs, and head straight for the club. There, you set up your shit and prepare for a long, long evening of mixing and creating beats for those who would listen, which is pretty much everyone and anyone.

At 3 am, you carry yourself home. You’re tired as fuck, high as hell, and swaggering down the street with a massive hangover. On your arm is a fine ass bitch (you don’t even know her name, probably Rochelle or some shit) and she’s giggling and telling you how hot you are and how much she loved your mixes (this chick talked a lot), and she just won’t stop.

Once you get back, you kick your shoes off (she follows suit) and you two head back to your room.

The night passes and she was okay, you guess. She moaned too damn load and was extremely clingy afterwards.

That’s okay, though.

You’re okay with a lot these days. You have been for the past seven years.


	2. livelihood

You awake to loud screams and the crash of something. You don’t what, but it was something. There’s gasping and mumbling and you can’t believe what you’re hearing. You’re used to chicks screaming (that’s fine and dandy), but you know what she’s gotten herself into. Rising from your bed, you run a hand through your hair and shove your aviators on.

You rise as quickly as possible and involuntarily grab your nearest item, a crowbar, and you drag yourself out of your room, down the hall, and into the kitchen. She quickly glances back at you. She starts to say all sorts of crazy things. You ignore her for just a moment to leer over her shoulder.

She found an arm and half a leg. Groaning, you take a swift swing at her legs. She falls back and hits her head (hard) onto the kitchen floor. There’s a slight whimper that escapes her lips before you strike her again. There was no effort the first time (you’re still waking up), but the second time is great. You hit her face, shattering her nose. Blood spills from her face and slowly begins to pool around her head.

It’s bright, really bright. Making a face, you tilt your head and look her in the eyes. They’re wide with fear. She’s shaking badly.

You remove your shades to examine the specks of blood. She makes an attempt to sit up, but you stop her, hitting her face again. Leaving a dent in her face, you back away, breathing hard.

Her screams have stopped and her breathing has slowed down. Her eyes are still wide from her previously known fear. There’s a dent in her face, right where her mouth and nose should be. There’s blood everywhere at this paint. On you, on her, on the kitchen floor, and a few specks on fridge. You shrug and drop your crowbar. Stepping right over her and into a puddle of blood, you reach into a cabinet and pull out a box.

You’re used to such a scene. You’ve been at it for a good...four years? Maybe. You don’t know how long. But it’s not very long, either. It was a coping mechanism you developed over time.

You first started when you were 15. It was hot and cold that month, so it must have been spring. You remember calling it Spring Cleaning. It was a week off for spring break and your Bro was in and out that week (but that was any other week).

You begin to prepare yourself a pot of coffee. Spring Cleaning was the best.


	3. spring cleaning

You only remember Spring Cleaning because it was really slow; therefore fresh memories. You were slow at first and your Bro was slow at the end, which was a first. He was never slow and you knew this, because he taught you to be quick. You learned quick, you moved fast, that’s basically how you lived. You two were in sync. 

So anyway.

You were 15 and spring break had rolled around. You were anxious, shaky, and nervous. School kept you calm during the day. You had “friends” to talk to and things to do with your hands and some type of food to eat. 

But for seven days straight, there was nothing to do. Absolutely, positively nothing. You were free to do whatever, but you didn’t want to do whatever. There wasn’t “whatever” to do as far as you were concerned. 

Your hands were shaky and you were on edge. Then again, you always were. You needed to do something with your hands because your Bro was always doing something with his.

And it made you uncomfortable on so many levels. There was never an explanation for what he did, he didn’t have to explain himself to you. You knew this and so did he and you never, ever spoke about it after it had happened.

It’s as if the game had changed everything and everyone. It made you shudder thinking about it, but everything happened for a reason.

Moving on.

Day one, spring break. You awake in a cold sweat. The alarm clock says 2 am. You were having nightmares again. You were the only one in your group of friends with these nightmares and it sucked. Groaning, you run a hand through your hair and reach around for your shades. After equipping them, you lower your hands and look towards your door.

There are hushed voices. You finally remember now. Bro walked in with a chick about a few hours ago. He’s probably calling a cab for her so she can take her ass home. You got used to this a lot as a kid, but you’re finding it hard to readjust now. It’s hard to readjust to a lot these days. 

Shaking your head, you take your shades, and thrown them aside, leaving them for later. You curl up into a ball and pull the blankets over your head and you hope to god morning comes soon. 

Morning doesn’t come as soon as you’d like. Instead, the door to your room opens and you freeze. There are soft murmurs and a bit of rustling and you know what’s coming next. God, this always happens and you just wish he’d stop for a goddamn night.

But he doesn’t. He makes his way towards your bed and stands over you. 

Alcohol.

“Hey, little man.”

Weed.

“I know you hear me.”

You don’t answer. You turn over and tighten your grip on your blanket. Shutting your eyes tightly, you bite down on your lip and hope to God he leaves. 

_“Dave!”_

He’s yelling and you flinch. You’re wondering what happened over the last two years. What changed and how did it happen? Why did it happen? There was no point on dwelling. There’s not much time to think before he pulls the blanket from you. You watch it fall to the ground and quickly sit up.

“Bro--”  
Before you can get another word out, you feel a sudden blow and there’s blood. Blood drips from your nose and onto the sheets before you. Looking up, you speak.

“You’re drunk.”

He lets out a heavy laugh and you flinch. You hate it when he does this and it makes you hate him even more. 

“Dude, seriously, go lay down or some shit..” 

He doesn’t listen to a word you say. 

Suddenly, your arm is in immense pain. You’re screaming and kicking and he’s dragging you off the bed and out of the room. He drops you and leaves you on the floor with a bloody nose and a dazed mind. You wipe your face off and before you can do anymore, another blow hits you in the face and you fall back. Your head hits the floor (pretty damn hard) and you’re fucked.

“Get up.”

Laying there, you weigh your options. Either get up or have your ass handed to you. You struggle to lift yourself from the ground, but you do so anyway because really, it’s too damn early for all of this. 

“Fuck.” You mumble. Looking at your hands, you bite down on your bottom lip. 

Your name is Dave Strider and you are 15 years old. You’re wondering what happened after Sburb and why it happened. Did you really deserve this? Was this all necessary? What happened to your Bro? How long would this last?

There weren’t any answers to these questions and you really wish there were. You shake your head and face your “Bro”. He stares at you, eyes bloodshot and fists clenched. You can feel yourself shake (again?) and you wonder what you can do to escape this time. You’ve done everything you could in the past and you ran out of ideas.

You know what’s next. 

He takes a menacing step towards you. It’s gonna happen (regardless) and you wish you had a voice at this moment.

“...no.”

Hopping to your feet, you push past him and run into the small kitchen. You frantically search the enclosed space and there you see it. Quickly, you take ahold of a knife and face your “Bro”.

He stops dead in his tracks and at this moment, you know you’ve fucked up. He isn’t afraid of knives; there are worse things that could hurt him. 

“Put it down.” He says.

“No.”

After that, darkness. Everything was a blur and it could’ve been over much, much sooner. It felt like forever, but that was okay.

_________

Your bro lays before you, dead. Blood. Red on the walls, the chairs, the counter, just fucking red everywhere. Tilting your head, you stare at the dismantled body before you. You had no intention on stabbing him to death. Maybe you wanted to stop him (if just for the day). Instead, you killed him. 

“Fuck,” You whisper, dropping to your knees. The knife falls from your hands and you feel yourself shaking. “Fuck, fuck, fuck...shit..”

What are you gonna do with this body? You don’t know. You can’t just get it together in a black bag, toss it in the dumpster, and hope for the best.

Standing, you rush to the bathroom and flip the switch. You hurl yourself over the sink and vomit. Your throat burns as you clench the ends of the marble sink. Your knuckles grow white and you feel so fucked up. You killed your brother.

The man that raised you.

The man that had your back in the game.

The man that soon found himself addicted to drugs and alcohol (but why?).

The man that molested you every night and beat you out of drunken spite (just because he can!).

But it’s over. Finally.  
 Exiting the bathroom, you make your way to the kitchen and his body is there. Cold, unmoving. You take a step towards it and stare down at it, your face frozen. 

“...damn.”

What to do? What to do, what to do, what to fucking do?

You glance over at the knife, then his head.

There’s no other option. 

Half an hour later, you find yourself roughly sawing at your bro’s neck, blood pooling around his head as you do so. The puddle grows quicker and quicker, but you pay it no mind. Instead, you’re busy cutting through his tissue and hopefully, his bone. As you do so, you sweat furiously. You sometimes find yourself wiping your forehead with a bloody hand. 

At this point, you’re covered in blood and you feel sick to your stomach. 

“Damn.”

You whisper, holding his head in your hands. You stare into his lifeless eyes and for once, you feel safe. But you hate those eyes. Biting down on your lip, you gently lower his head onto the ground in front of you.

You’re hungry.

Very hungry. 

You take one of your fingers and prod at one of his eyes. Eventually, it falls out and before it hits the floor, you quickly catch it in the palm of your hand.

Not a moment later, you stuff it into your mouth. You sit there for a moment to process what you’ve just done. After a few seconds or so, you slowly begin to chew.

For the rest of that evening, you find yourself dismembering a body and cleaning it.

Spring break was just starting.


End file.
